


walk beside me

by MissAtomicBomb (mrs_nerimon)



Category: GLOW (2017), GLOW (Netflix)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, where's the fandom for this show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-22 00:48:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11369094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_nerimon/pseuds/MissAtomicBomb
Summary: After the fundraiser, Justine feels like she might as well be living in her own B-movie. Post "The Liberal Chokehold".





	walk beside me

**Author's Note:**

> Yoooo I binged GLOW in a single day and totally fell in love with it. The 80s + wrestling + a killer soundtrack= A++. Justine, my lil anarchist daughter, is wonderful and I wished we had seen more of her reaction to the reveal with Sam. It's hard with a 30-min series, but there was so much tension there that just seemed wrapped up too quickly in the finale. Hopefully we'll get a season 2 to explore more of her and Sam's potential relationship.
> 
> Also- Arthie is Pure and ofc I had to include her in this. 
> 
> Spoilers for the whole series.

The room ought to be spinning, Justine thinks. The floors should feel unsteady, the walls asylum white. If this were a film, the camera would tilt as it followed her down the stairs. She would be tripping in her heels, stumbling and shaking her way outside. She would be gagging or hitting something or crying.

But all she feels is a little bit cold and hungry as she pushes through the throngs of middle aged conservatives. Her legs don’t tremble, her throat doesn’t close up as she thinks of the feeling of Sam Sylvia (movie director, her idol, her boss, her father) pushing his mouth against hers.

Her body feels empty as she escapes out the door, leaving the girls and Bash and _Sam_ behind. There’s no ringing in her head, no pounding fear or sickness in her limbs. She’s just…. tired.

She walks all the way back to the motel. Twenty minutes on winding roads from upper class paradise to the Dusty Spur. The place looks deserted; she’s not even sure if there are other people staying here. Arthie’s still at the party, and it’s a relief to close the door and stand, alone, in a place that feels the most like home. Outside of the gym, at least, but Justine's not sure she can ever set foot back in there after tonight.

She strips off the dress and takes a shower. She turns the water on as hot as it can go, which, in a crappy motel at 10:45 pm, isn’t very hot.She rubs soap all over, her legs and her arms and her lips, the sour taste invading her mouth. She cleans her breasts and tries not to think of the way Sam leered at then, leaning in towards her before-

 _Fuck_.

What the fuck is she supposed to do now?

This was a shit plan from the start, and all she’s gotten out of it is bruises on her back and an impressively strong core.

She was so stupid for thinking this would work. For thinking she would come here and impress the shit out of him, get cast in a movie or invited to write with him. He’d appreciate her and respect her and then she could let him know, casually, comfortably, after he already liked her for who she was-

_You’re my dad and I grew up watching your films and I’ve loved you all my life._

Then they’d go for ice cream, or a walk in the park, or some other cliche father-daughter event. He’d say things like "don't stay out too late" and tell her not to bother with boys who dress like a knockoff Billy Idol. That’s what fathers do, right?

But the man in that bedroom, the one who raked her body with his eyes and reeked of booze, the one who thinks they can’t spot how he rubs at his nose after every trip to the bathroom, _that man_ is not her father. He’s not the Sam Sylvia she dreamed of, the one she pictured in her head watching _Gina the Machina_ and imagining, one day, what it would be to meet him. To stand alongside him. To love him.

She’s a fucking idiot.

The shower runs cold and Justine makes herself get out, sits in a towel on the edge of her unmade bed. The clock reads 11:20, but no one seems to have come back yet.

She could run. That’s the first thought, the most prominent one bouncing around her head. She could split back to Sacramento. Or over to Malibu. Or anywhere else in California- hell, the whole west coast. She’s young and attractive and the world is her oyster. Fuck this. Fuck GLOW, fuck Sam, fuck whatever she was trying to accomplish here.

She’s halfway through packing her bag -toothbrush, Walkman, motel shampoo- when the absurdity of that choice hits. Running away is tempting, but there's no way she could cut it on her own without GLOW. Her skills are limited to angst ridden criticisms of American culture and fake fighting. Where the fuck is she supposed to go?

Justine flops back on the bed. Maybe this is an actual fight or flight situation, and she has no idea which option to pick, because they both sound like shit.

She can’t face Sam again. After that disaster of a confession, her deepest secret finally laid bare and his rejection-

He wouldn’t want to see her. Wouldn’t have anything to say to her, unless maybe she was dying and needed a kidney. _Maybe_.

Someone fiddles with the door. Justine sits up, suddenly aware she’s still sitting around in a towel and leaking wet hair all over her bed.

It’s only Arthie, of course, who stumbles in as she pulls off her shoes.

“Phew. I’m glad Beirut doesn’t have to wear any dresses.”

Justine thinks of her own dress, maybe the nicest thing she owns, crumpled in a pile at the bottom of her bed.

_I didn’t recognize you._

She wants to throw it out, suddenly. Or maybe shove it down the toilet.

“They didn’t have Lucky Charms.” Arthie complains, changing out of her outfit. “I liked Bash’s party better.”

Justine blinks up at the ceiling.

“You leave early?”

“Yeah.” Her voice sounds scratchy and weak. She hasn’t spoken to anyone since Sam, she realizes.

“Hey- we got a venue!” Arthie theatrically jumps back into bed, limbs flailing in the sheets. “Bash’s mom is gonna give us a place.”

Right- the show. That’s why the rest of them are here. Not for some self-serving emotional family reunion. They have a job to do.

“Cool.” Justine tries to sound remotely genuine for her friend, but Arthie’s too tired to notice anything amiss anyhow.

“Gooood night!” She mumbles into her pillow, lights still on.

She waits until she can hear the first rumbles of Arthie’s snoring, before finally getting off her bed. This time her legs do feel a bit wobbly, and she has to dig her toes into the carpet to stand still and pull on her pajamas. Her stomach grumbles as she gets under the covers, but she ignores it. Tomorrow, when things don’t seem quite so dark and terrible, she’ll go to the diner and order the biggest meal she can. And then, after a plate of fries and too much coffee, she’ll decide what to do. She’ll feel better. After all, it probably can’t get any worse than this.

Sleep is firmly out of the question, so Justine slips on her headphones and blocks Arthie’s snoring. She shuts her eyes and tries to think of being anywhere but here, listening to _Burning Down the House_ as she watches the sun come up through the windows.


End file.
